


armistice

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [44]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 17:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11605011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “I have notes,” Robbie tells him. “For like. Talking. I dunno.” Fuck, he’s glad he made notes, because apparently he needs them desperately.“You have notes?” Georgie asks, mouth quirking up a little.“I think we both know how shit things I go when I improvise,” Robbie says.





	armistice

Robbie sleeps like absolute shit, which isn’t a surprise. First there’s the getting to sleep, which doesn’t happen for a long time despite his exhaustion, his brain humming with potential scenarios for tomorrow: the shit he wants to say, the shit he shouldn’t say. The shit that’d rip Georgie to pieces, which kind of fits both of those categories. Every time he gets close to drifting off a new thought intrudes, or an old one rears its head, so at two in the morning he’s squinting through the dim light of lamp beside his bed, scribbling down all the shit he should say, shouldn’t say, wants to say, what the fuck ever, in the hopes he can finally _sleep_.

He does, surprisingly, though he wakes again before dawn, scowling at his phone before groaning and putting his pillow over his head, not falling asleep again until after he hears the shower start up in the master bathroom.

He’s been okay waking at up to his alarm, at least recently, but he hits snooze enough times his ma comes into his room to wake him herself when he’s on the edge of being late for training, and Robbie scrambles to get dressed in the first things he can grab, shoving that middle of the night list into his shorts pocket at the last second. He regrets that almost as soon as he’s on the road, regrets the worn out shirt that hangs loose on him, shorts he’s had longer than most of his friendships, but fuck. He doesn’t know why he cares. Georgie’s seen him looking worse, and Robbie shouldn’t care about how Georgie sees him at all.

Robbie’s distracted all day, but he doesn’t think it’s too obvious, at least from everyone else’s reactions. Georgie shoots him texts to figure out where they’re meeting Robbie answers during their breaks, offers to meet him in Allston so Robbie doesn’t have to deal with rush hour traffic. Robbie’s a little paranoid Braden will run into them and invite himself along or something, but he agrees anyway, because getting anywhere else would be a bitch. 

Training lets out a little earlier than usual, annoying instead of a relief, and he ends up stuck fidgeting on a bench at the park they agreed to meet at, trying to block out a game of soccer played by kids who seem more interested in shrieking than kicking the ball around. It’s a sweltering day, and Robbie checks out what’s got a patio and the best reviews on Yelp, anything to keep distracted, to ignore the way he’s simultaneously got his heart in the pit of his stomach and in his throat, somehow.

“Hey,” Robbie hears while he’s debating whether a half star difference is worth an extra block of what’s going to probably be a pretty fucking awkward walk, looking up to see Georgie shifting from foot to foot, clearly already feeling that awkwardness. He’s cut his hair short, has that undercut that looks good on pretty much everyone. Unfortunately he’s no exception. At all.

Georgie’s rocking a t-shirt and shorts and the customary Dineen tan, which means he’s got no tan at all, is just a little pink from the sun, has those summer freckles on his cheeks that’ll fade when fall comes around, or maybe stay. It’s not like Robbie cataloged them or anything, just that Georgie had more coming into sophomore year than he had in freshman, more when Georgie came to the Caps than he had when when Robbie saw him last. He used to trace them with his fingers, more the ones on his arms, his chest, but sometimes the ones on his cheeks too, with the softest touch he could manage. Georgie said it tickled, usually ended up squirming away, laughing, but he always let Robbie do it anyway. 

Robbie is pretty sure he’s going to have to up the 99% sure he’s still in love with him to 100%, and he _hates_ it.

Robbie scrambles up, sees Georgie hesitating between what looks like a handshake and a wave, and it’s the competitive part of Robbie that pulls him into a loose hug, the kind you give acquaintances. He immediately regrets it, with Georgie’s chest flush to his, but thankfully Georgie lets go as fast as he does.

“I was just looking up places with patios,” Robbie says, “Any preferences on kind of food, or—”

“Wherever you want,” Georgie says. Typically this is where he’d have added ‘I’m easy’, but Robbie’s noticed he’s been smart enough not to say that around Robbie for awhile.

“Kay,” Robbie says, figures that’s the sign to just go to the closest one possible. He’s probably not going to taste shit anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. Georgie walks half a step behind him, despite his long-ass legs, and Robbie doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t know where he’s going or because it’s just fucking awkward to walk beside him.

“This is really fucking awkward,” Robbie says aloud after half a block, because it’s not like it can be any _more_ awkward. It was almost easier being around him in December, when Robbie was just so fucking furious he was there that there wasn’t room for the awkward ex shit at all. He remembers it, a bit, from Francis, but this is weapons grade awkward. Robbie hates Saul. He hates him.

Georgie laughs, and it’s an uncomfortable one, but he keeps pace with Robbie for the rest of the short walk.

The patio’s surprisingly hopping considering it’s early for the dinner rush and too early in the week for a big ass happy hour crowd, but they get a table that’s just being cleared. Robbie’s back to fidgeting as the hostess goes to get them cutlery, reaches into his pocket to find the folded up notes he made for himself in the middle of the night.

“What’s that?” Georgie asks.

“I have notes,” Robbie tells him. “For like. Talking. I dunno.” Fuck, he’s glad he made notes, because apparently he needs them desperately. 

“You have notes?” Georgie asks, mouth quirking up a little.

“I think we both know how shit things I go when I improvise,” Robbie says. “My therapist like, legit gave me homework.”

Georgie’s mouth quirk becomes a full-blown smile.

“Dear George Kenneth Dineen The Third,” Robbie reads as he unfolds it, which isn’t actually written down, but makes Georgie laugh.

They get interrupted by the waitress then, which is probably for the best, because Robbie’s notes aren’t so much notes as words scribbled in some kind of order that made sense to Robbie at two in the morning, but are barely _legible_ now, let alone helpful.

Robbie wants a beer so badly he can practically taste it, but Georgie orders soda and Robbie reluctantly follows suit and orders water, since they’re both driving after this. Not that one beer would be a problem, but sticking to one beer might be. Now’s not really the time for nervous drinking, liquid courage or no.

“So, homework?” Georgie asks when she leaves. “They have you write me a letter or something?”

“Practically,” Robbie says. “He pretty much told me I needed to write a list of what I need from you if you stay with the Caps. But like, obviously that’s a hypothetical. If you’re not sticking around, then I guess it’s —”

“I don’t think I’m getting traded,” Georgie interrupts.

“What, never bothered to follow through on asking?” Robbie asks.

“I did ask,” Georgie says. Robbie doesn’t know why that hurts. “But Greg — my agent—” he says, and Robbie has to keep himself from saying he _knows_ his agent’s fucking name, that it’s not like breaking up gives you amnesia. If anything, it’s the polar fucking opposite. “He says Rutledge was kind of…not into the idea and basically told him not to hold his breath unless he got something amazing back. And you know where the cap hit is right now. I’m cheap, at least.”

It’s all Robbie can do to bite back a response to that one. Georgie’s not wrong, anyway. Less than a million for a solid second pairing player is, well — they’re not going to be paying Robbie less than a million starting this season. His agent and Caps management are in the final stages of extending his contract, something Robbie should have been more invested in than he has been, lately. Robbie’s looking at twice what the Caps are paying Georgie. He wonders if that bothers Georgie. It’d bother him.

“So you’re going to be there next season,” Robbie says.

“Unless I force the issue,” Georgie says. “No guarantees, but. I could.”

“And get that reputation?” Robbie asks. You act like a dick with management it spreads through the league faster than you can blink, not just with management, but with players, media, fans. It’s a damn death sentence. Robbie’s seen it slash contract prices, land a player on a team they couldn’t have wanted, turn a fanbase against a player. Whatever anger he has towards Georgie, he wouldn’t wish that upon him for anything, especially not for him. 

“If you really need me to —” Georgie says.

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” Robbie snaps.

“How am I being an asshole?” Georgie asks.

“You’d, what, martyr yourself because I can’t handle being around you?” Robbie asks. “Come the fuck on.”

“Do you think it wouldn’t be a relief for me too?” Georgie asks. Robbie flinches. “Not — I don’t mean like that, Robbie.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” Robbie says.

“Fuck,” Georgie says. “Do you think it’s been an easy time for me? And don’t do the ‘poor Georgie’ thing, I’m not asking for sympathy, I’m just—”

“I know,” Robbie says. It’s not like he missed that this has been shit for Georgie too. Fuck, he found _comfort_ in it. Still does, honestly. 

The waitress comes back with their drinks and they order artichoke dip, one of Georgie’s anti-vegetable exceptions. Spinach dip's one too. Salsa. Now that Robbie thinks of it, if they hide the vegetables, Georgie’s usually game. “Fries too?” Georgie asks. “I won’t tell your trainer if you don’t tell mine.”

“Yeah, fuck it,” Robbie says. He’s not having a beer, he can have some damn fries.

They talk about nothing shit while they’re waiting by some unspoken mutual agreement, Georgie telling him about the Dineens, how William’s birthday went, Robbie telling him about his ma, Braden, training. It’s not until food’s on the table that Georgie asks, “What was on the list?” like it was something Robbie just mentioned a second ago.

“I never really made one?” Robbie says. “Not properly. Shit student, as always.”

“You were a great student,” Georgie says. 

“Okay, shit at following orders,” Robbie says.

Georgie shrugs, like ‘fair’. 

“Saul,” Robbie says. “Uh, my shrink, he.”

“Mine’s Daniel,” Georgie says.

“Your what?” Robbie says.

“Shrink,” Georgie says. “He’s a sports psychologist, but. Still a psychologist. He doesn’t tell me to shut up if it’s not about hockey, or anything.”

“You’re seeing a shrink?” Robbie asks.

“For a couple years now,” Georgie says, and it’s weird, the way Robbie’s kind of upset he didn’t know that, because why the fuck would Georgie have told him? That’d have just been giving Robbie ammunition, and it’s not like Robbie needed any more of it. “Daniel’s new though, I had a different one in Cleveland. I wasn’t planning on getting another but when I went home my mom got kind of — well.”

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Mine too. He give you homework?”

“None yet,” Georgie says.

“The list thing kind of didn’t work,” Robbie says. “Unless the whole point was to piss me off.”

Georgie’s mouth flattens.

“Say it,” Robbie says.

“I’m good,” Georgie says.

“‘Everything pisses you off, Robbie, it’s not hard’,” Robbie says for him, and when Georgie frowns and opens his mouth, “‘Don’t say that shit about yourself, Robbie’.”

“I don’t sound that squeaky,” Georgie says.

“Fuck you that was my regular voice,” Robbie says, and when Georgie ducks his head and laughs he thinks, for a second, that Saul was wrong, they _could_ be friends again, it could be that fucking easy. But then he gets caught on the way the sunlight glints off the necklace revealed under Georgie’s v-neck, and he remembers Georgie telling him where he got it, drowsy eyed, while Robbie traced over each link, really just giving himself the excuse to draw his fingers over the sharp jut of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. Remembers asking Georgie about it before throwing him out of his apartment that first time Georgie fell into his bed, and feeling so desperately alone after. He’s felt that a lot, since.

“I don’t really know how not to be mad at you,” Robbie says.

“I get that,” Georgie says. “You have every right—”

“I know I do,” Robbie says. “I don’t need your permission.”

“You’re right,” Georgie says, soft. “You don’t.”

“But it’s exhausting,” Robbie says. “I don’t want to be, you know? I’m sick of it.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says.

“And I fucking miss being your friend,” Robbie says. “But I don’t think I can be right now. Or, like. Maybe ever.”

Georgie swallows. “I get that,” he says. “I don’t think I can be yours right now either.” 

And fuck, Robbie wonders if it hurt Georgie as much to hear Robbie say it as it hurts Robbie to hear it from Georgie. He hopes so, and he doesn’t, and he just — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know shit about anything right now, it feels like.

“So like, I don’t know where that leaves us in September,” Robbie says. “Truce? D-partners? Teammates who get along but don’t hang out?”

“Okay,” Georgie says. “Those sound — I mean, I don’t think good is the right word, but.” 

“Does okay work?” Robbie asks.

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Okay works.”

“Best I can offer,” Robbie says. “Plus I won’t accuse you of shit with Frei anymore. I’ll throw that one in for free.”

Probably not so magnanimous considering Frei just signed with the Avalanche, but it makes Georgie laugh. That's something Robbie’s always tried to do, day one on, never even seemed to manage to stop trying when he was ten times more likely to be throwing barbs his way than jokes. He does it with everyone, really, but Georgie — it was always so easy to make him laugh. And Robbie really, really loves his laugh.

“Cards on the table,” Robbie says. “I’m 100% not over you and I have no idea when I will be.”

“Cards on the table,” Georgie says. “I’m 100% in the same exact boat as you are.”

If Robbie goes with that metaphor, that’s one pathetic boat, and no matter how much they bail it out it keeps sinking. But maybe they’ve found like…are boat patches a thing? Robbie guesses so. They’re still taking water though, so he doesn’t know about the quality of these boat…patch…things. But hey. Maybe they won’t drown now.

Robbie sucks at metaphors.

“Cool,” Robbie says. “So this is going to be a fun fucking season.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says.

Robbie glances at the dip. “Can I have the last—”

“Go ahead,” Georgie says.

They get back to safe shit, or as safe as shit can get. Robbie figures you can’t really top declarations of love, or whatever. Georgie’s training with another of the former Terriers in upstate New York, and Robbie wonders if he says the kind of shit Braden does, brings about those awkward, aching moments where he has to confront the past. He doesn’t think it’s the time to ask.

“Should get on the road,” Georgie says, after the food’s been decimated, their drinks refilled then emptied again, the bill long since paid. “Have to drive back to Rochester tonight.”

“Dude, seriously?” Robbie says. “That’s far as hell, why are you letting me keep you?”

Georgie shrugs. “Felt like this was more important,” Georgie says. “I — look, Robbie.”

“Uh oh,” Robbie says, and Georgie smiles a little.

“I know we’re not friends,” Georgie says, “and maybe won’t ever be, but if you need someone to give a shit about you -- I am always going to give a shit about you, okay? You need me, I’m there.”

Robbie looks at his empty water glass, swallows hard.

“I just needed you to know that,” Georgie says, when Robbie doesn’t say anything. “That’s all. It’s not — it’s unconditional.”

Robbie nods, jerky.

“I should go,” Georgie says.

“Yeah,” Robbie says, looking up. “One last heartbreak fistbump for the road?” 

“For sure,” Georgie says, then, “Last?”

“I’m gonna figure out a better one for next season,” Robbie says.

“Okay,” Georgie says, holding his fist out, and laughs, as always, when Robbie makes it explode.


End file.
